


Where You End, Where I Begin

by umadoshi (Ysabet)



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant
Genre: Adopted Sibling Incest, Canon Disabled Character, Community: wrisomifu, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, POV First Person, Pre-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabet/pseuds/umadoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>George and I both knew something had gone wrong with us; that was obvious, since what we felt for each other was so far outside the norm that the norm was barely a speck in the distance. What I couldn't see was how it would've been any different if we were blood siblings. If we were really twins, the way we frequently let people assume we are, how could that possibly make it feel </i>less<i> like she's part of me?</i></p><p>Set seven years before <i>Feed</i>.</p><p>This story stands on its own, but it's set some weeks after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/978111">"We Dreamed a Garden"</a> (Georgia's POV, in which she and Shaun experiment by going to junior prom with other people, don't like it much, admit their feelings for each other, and spend half the night fooling around about as thoroughly as you can without getting naked).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You End, Where I Begin

**Author's Note:**

> Beta work by wildpear.
> 
> Title from Tori Amos' "your cloud".
> 
> Content Advisory: the majority of this fic involves extensive and enthusiastic consensual sexual activity between sixteen-year-old adoptive siblings. It also refers to minor childhood violence between them.

George wandered into my room about half an hour after I heard our parents drive off. It was only the fourth time they'd left us alone for a few days, but already all of us were feeling fine about it. I mean, George and I felt fine about it the _first_ time, since we can both cook well enough to keep ourselves alive, but Mom and Dad had the jitters about it maybe looking bad to leave a pair of sixteen-year-olds to fend for themselves. But after we failed to die or make the news in their absence, they'd relaxed.

This time we'd pleaded our way out of making it a family weekend trip by saying we had research to do, which we did. Lots of it.

George had managed to avoid most of our parents' leave-taking and last-minute instructions by disappearing into the shower just as they were getting ready to go. It annoyed Mom to not get anything out of her other than a hollered "Bye, have fun, don't die!" down the stairs, but what else was new? She'd tried calling George on that kind of thing a couple of times, but it just made George go icy and point out that "that kind of thing" was dead-standard adolescent behavior. She informed Mom in no uncertain terms that at our age she was past being able to sell the "precocious mini-adult" thing Mom was used to milking her for, so "plausible teenager" would have to do. Just to twist the knife, she sounded _exactly_ like an adult while she spelled it out for Mom--but it was a completely different kind of maturity than Mom wanted.

While George washed up, I gave the 'rents bright fake smiles and half-listened to the list of instructions that none of us cared about, because they were filming just in case they needed some kind of family montage later. I played my part well enough to placate them, and they were smiling when they left and took the fucking cameras with them.

George didn't emerge from our bathroom until they were well and truly gone, and she detoured through her room before coming to mine, so I spent a good few minutes trying not to fidget while I listened to the sounds of her moving around in there. I wouldn't have put it past her to take her time just because she _could_ , now that we were on our own and didn't need to be quick and furtive about touching each other. Even in our rooms, we felt the pressure of our parents' presence; it took them leaving for _days_ to ease that weight on us.

I've always known George feels that pressure more intensely than I do, but until we started making out and stuff, I hadn't fully realized how literal it is for her. Some nights I lay in bed beside her, not doing anything more physically intimate than rubbing her back, and felt tension ebb and flow through her body whenever we heard any kind of sound from downstairs.

But now that we were genuinely alone, she didn't keep me waiting long, and she wasted no time on formalities. She came in without knocking and sprawled comfortably on my bed beside me. Just the sight of her made my mouth go dry and my hands and cock twitch with the urge to touch her. "So," she said. "Straight to my room, or do you want to stay in here for a bit?"

"Got a preference?" I wasted about half a second trying not to stare at her. It wasn't like I couldn't feel her staring back through her sunglasses. She was wearing exactly what she usually wore around the house--jeans and a tank top--although since I _was_ staring, I could tell she wasn't wearing a bra.

"Maybe in here first?" She stretched, arching her back one slow vertebra at a time. "That gives us two sets of sheets to get messy if we want."

"How messy are you planning to get?" I asked.

"I like to keep my options open." Pure mischief lurked in the tiny smile she gave me. "And if we don't stay on top of the laundry, Mom'll find it less weird if you've got more than one set of sheets that need washing than if I do. You know how boys are--jacking off all the time."

That was George's idea of a subtle hint. My own hand wasn't what I wanted, but it was a decent start. I rubbed my palm against my crotch, hyper-aware of her eyes on me. The stimulation and her attention revved my body up from "interested" to "really fucking horny" in just a few strokes. I heard--or saw, like the difference mattered--her breathing change, going heavy in a way that made me want to really do it for her, to see her response if I unzipped and jerked myself and came with her name on my lips. I wanted her to _see_.

I wanted it badly enough that if the next words out of her mouth had been "come for me", odds were she would've gotten her wish before she finished asking. She was close enough to touch--close enough that I could smell the post-shower moisturizer on her skin--and we were going to fuck. Today. I had to keep reminding myself that she couldn't hear the pulse that was pounding relentlessly in my ears. That steady beat sprang straight from the deepest, most instinctive part of me, the part that smelled warmth and musk in the air and couldn't think about anything but _I'm finally, **finally** going to fuck her._

We'd been in a holding pattern for weeks: all our cards on the table, both of us sure, absolutely sure, that what we felt for each other and had been dancing around for three years or so was for real and not going anywhere. Cue the swelling music and maybe some sparkles or something, except neither of us has a romantic bone in our body, and oh, yeah, the whole "sibling" thing kinda complicates stuff. We had no illusions about how it'd go over if anyone found out how we felt, never mind that we were planning to act on it.

It wasn't as if we _hadn't_ acted on it, exactly. We'd just set some limits for ourselves while we got practical shit sorted out--completely arbitrary limits, but we'd agreed on them and then stuck to them even when it made us crazy. It essentially boiled down to always keeping our clothes on, which ruled out stuff like any kind of penetration or oral.

Not that that kept George from doing things like sticking my fingers in her mouth just to see my expression when she licked and sucked on them. Apparently wanting to bang your brother doesn't keep you from wanting to torment him; it just opens up a world of new possibilities.

What those limits also allowed for was figuring out that hours-long makeout sessions, often in the middle of the night, were a hell of a lot of fun, and that staying dressed doesn't mean no orgasms, just more laundry. None of that had kept us from wanting to take things further, but it meant we weren't pretending anymore and that we were both floating on endorphins an awful lot. It meant we were _together_. And sure, I wanted to have full-on sex with her--I wanted it so badly I could taste it, could practically taste _her_ \--but the anticipation was awesome in its own way, now that we knew for sure it was gonna happen.

We hadn't gone all the way yet for a couple of very different reasons. George, detail-oriented to the core, insisted on getting blood tests done on the basically-nil chance that we might be genetically related after all. We bundled that test up with a couple dozen others, testing for all kinds of rare diseases and stuff, and both ticked off all the boxes to let the CDC and whatever other scientific groups have access to our samples and results, because why not? George's blood was already on file practically everywhere in the known universe. All our lives, researchers have been drooling over the fact that the Masons let them have so much access to her info, letting them track her reservoir condition's progression. Giving them a little more wouldn't hurt anything.

Then we waited, even though it didn't matter. Neither of us thought for a minute that it would actually change anything if we _did_ share some DNA, especially since it was flat-out impossible for us to be biological full siblings on top of it being astronomically unlikely that we were even remotely related. George mostly wanted that piece of data as some kind of insurance, if we ever did find ourselves in the position of needing to justify anything.

The night after we ordered those tests I went into her room to say goodnight--a process that now took a lot longer than it used to--and I asked, after kissing her thoroughly, "Would it make a difference?"

We both knew something had gone wrong with us; that was obvious, since what we felt for each other was so far outside the norm that the norm was barely a speck in the distance. What I couldn't see was how it would've been any different if we were blood siblings. If we were really twins, the way we frequently let people assume we are, how could that possibly make it feel _less_ like she's part of me?

"No," George said, so readily I knew she'd been thinking about it too. "No, it wouldn't."

That was one reason for delaying. The other was the more obvious practical concern: if George got pregnant, we were screwed beyond belief. It _might_ have been possible for her to get an abortion without our parents noticing, but neither of us was confident about it or wanted to risk her having to go through that. So she gave ground on something that had been a point of quiet--and in my opinion kind of ridiculous, but it was her body--pride for her since we were thirteen: she finally decided to tell Mom that she got bad cramps and would really rather not.

That was a fucking understatement. It was usually only bad for one night a month, and since it almost always _was_ at night she could hide it, but since we'd hit puberty that had been the one guaranteed night I'd crash in her room. It wasn't just that she wanted to be held, although she did; the big thing was that she feels safer with me there, and those nights made her feel more vulnerable than anyone ever should in their own bed. With me there she could drug herself completely senseless, trying to beat back the double whammy of vicious cramps and the cherry-on-top migraine they inevitably brought with them before the combined pain made her throw up.

We had one of those nights less than a week after George made the decision, and even that was different than it had been. I could hold her tighter without worrying about my body betraying anything we were trying not to talk about, and she got me to put my weight on her, holding a heat pack firmly in place. We spent most of the night like that, dozing on and off. It wasn't the most comfortable way I'd ever slept, but it made things enough better for her that it was worth it.

In the morning she talked to Mom. Our parents still kept close tabs on everything to do with our health, and while we had ideas about how to go behind their backs, we didn't want to try it unless we really needed to.

Still, George didn't give Mom a single detail beyond "it hurts", and given their relationship, Mom knew she wouldn't be telling her even that unless it really, really sucked. Less than two days later George had a wicked sore arm and her first three-year contraceptive implant, followed by a week of batshit mood swings that made her so enraged and miserable that I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd dug the damn thing right back out with her bare fingers and sworn off the idea of sex forever.

It says a lot about both my sister and our parents that during that week, she came down for meals and we did our math homework in the dining room, just like always, and Mom and Dad didn't notice a thing.

If George were capable of crying, I think she would've done it from sheer relief when her hormones adjusted to the change and stopped making her careen between homicidal and massively depressed. The peace of mind she'd gotten the implant for barely registered in comparison; it was another day or so before either of us stopped and said, "Hey, we can have sex now."

After that, the main question we were left with was "when?" When could we make sure we had ample time and privacy, not just the bare minimum? While we worked out the logistics, framing our encouragement of Mom and Dad going away for a weekend as a not-terribly-subtle bid for independence, our messing around took on a more frantic edge. We needed them to leave us alone before either of us seriously suggested losing our virginity at two A.M. with our parents sleeping downstairs; we both knew if one of us caved, the other would agree, no matter how badly we wanted to give ourselves room to explore and experiment and savor every bit of it.

In the meantime, we agreed we could both say whatever we wanted in the heat of the moment and it _wasn't_ an invitation to cross the lines we'd drawn together. That meant I could do things like run my hands all over her body and tell her how bad I wanted to take her clothes off; it meant she felt completely comfortable getting right to the brink of orgasm and whispering stuff like _Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me_ while she came, knowing I wouldn't take it as permission to do just that.

And the answer to "when?" was finally "now", and George was watching me touch myself with so much raw desire I could hardly stand it.

I stopped doing that--I sure as hell didn't need the help--and cupped a hand against her ass instead, rubbing my thumb over her hipbone.

"Mmm." She rolled from her side onto her back, holding my wrist to keep my hand on her. I moved just my thumb, slipping it under the waist of her jeans. "I think you should undress for me." Her smile was downright predatory. "Show me what I'm getting into."

I laughed and shifted my hand to right between her legs, flattening my fingers up against her. "And here I thought _I_ was getting into _you_."

"Smartass," she said.

"You know you love it."

She flipped me off, so I caught hold of her wrist, flicking my tongue against her fingertip. Her thighs parted a little more around my hand, giving me room to work.

It's amazing what you can feel through denim; it'd take some serious effort to get her wet enough that I could feel _that_ through her jeans, but I could feel all the contours of her body, how she was relaxed and ready. For me.

I curled my fingers, pressing the seam of the jeans hard against her clit, and her hips came right up off the bed, like she was going to come in my hand. She wasn't there yet, but it'd be easy to make that happen--I already knew she liked the rough friction of fabric, enough that she'd made a point of telling me she'd want me to be gentler when her clothes were off.

She peeled my hand away before I could follow that line of thought further. "Undress, Shaun." When she had that note in her voice, I knew exactly how she was looking at me. "Let me see you."

"Do you want everything off?"

"Uh-huh." She dragged her fingers up the length of my erection, plainly visible through my pants. "Show me."

"What'll you give me?"

George huffed a quick laugh, wrinkling her nose. "My virginity?"

"No deal. I'm already getting that when I give you mine."

She conceded the point with a nod. "Top or jeans?"

"You want me completely naked just to get your pants off?"

"Is that a vote for jeans?"

"Sure," I said, letting it go. If George was feeling playful, I was happy to indulge it. She doesn't get that way very often.

"Okay." She hopped up off the bed and turned to face me while she unzipped her jeans and pushed them down over her hips, letting them fall to the floor. She was quick and efficient about it, and she wasn't revealing anything I hadn't seen a million times, but context is everything. I was completely hypnotized by the deftness of her fingers and the lines of her legs.

George doesn't work out the way I do, but she comes down to the gym with me and does laps a lot, on the theory that she's never going to be able to fight zombies off but would really like to be sure she can outrun them. Result? She's got great legs to go with her not-too-shabby running times. I had a sudden, desperate desire to get my mouth on her thighs, to kiss them all over until she spread them for me.

"That's a good vacant stare, right?" she asked, when I didn't say anything.

"Yeah," I said, with a fervor that made her smile.

"Your turn, then." She sat back down, watching me expectantly. "Take it all off for me."

"Demanding, aren't you?" I replied. Of course she was--she's always bossy when she knows I'm happy or even just willing to do what she wants. It's everyone _else_ in the world who makes me dig in my heels.

The part of my brain that was running on instinct was being demanding too. That was the part of me that was painfully aware that with her jeans off, there was nothing between George's cunt and my sheets but one thin layer of cotton; the part of me that knew she was turned on enough that the cotton was wet, maybe right through, and getting the scent of her arousal on my bed.

It didn't matter that more than once I'd already fallen asleep there with that warm scent all around me. That wordless voice was making sure I couldn't forget for a second that it was happening again, right now, right in front of me.

I enjoyed knowing that. I just didn't much like the idea that it could be the _only_ thing I was thinking about, if I let my mind go wandering too far down that road.

I distracted myself a bit by undressing more slowly than she had, grinning when the leisurely pace made her squirm. I got my shirt off, and then my pants, and when I was down to just my boxers George moved to the edge of the bed and put her hands on mine. "Let me?"

She waited for my nod, and then her hand was back on my cock, exploring the shape and the way the fabric strained around me. When she was satisfied, she peeled the boxers off, caught my hands again, and pulled me onto the bed, where she pushed me down on my back. "Is this all right?"

"Do whatever you want," I said, entranced by the look on her face. I was more than willing to let her have her way with me, whatever that way turned out to be. Things would probably go slower if I followed her lead--and if they went fast, then it wouldn't be because of me.

Almost inaudibly, she said, "I want an awful lot."

"So take it."

After the way she'd been touching me through my underwear, I kind of expected her to go for my cock again, but she didn't. She lay down beside me instead, took a shaky breath, and lowered her mouth to my shoulder.

She spent the next while--a long, agonizingly good while--kissing her way across my chest. One hand was in slow, constant motion over my skin, never going below my waist, even though she was half on top of me and had one of her thighs between mine. The unapologetic way she was groping me seemed more for her benefit than mine, like it was a nice bonus if I was really into it too, but was mostly about appreciating my body.

If those touches seemed almost absentminded, it was because she was so intently focused on what she was doing with her mouth: kissing me, pausing to gauge my response, and kissing again. The softness of her lips alternated with the stronger, defter feel of her tongue, and sudden sharpness when she bit or sucked a little.

I felt like a science experiment--an incredibly _lucky_ science experiment. If there's anything more erotic than having someone intent on making you feel good while they're actively enjoying your body in return, no one's told me about it.

It was an honest-to-God revelation when she started toying with a nipple. I'd never thought mine were particularly sensitive, but it turned out they had my hormones on speed-dial when George's mouth was involved. My entire body bowed under her when she got there, making me swear and groan. She stopped dead, assessing, and then flicked just the tip of her tongue across the same spot.

"Good?" she asked rhetorically.

I opened my mouth to say yes anyway, but then she was sucking and I was distracted by the new, incredibly visceral idea that she might be able to make me come from it. All those late-night makeout-and-more sessions meant I was used to orgasming from her touch, and that we were familiar enough with each other's cues and responses for her desire to feed mine, and vice versa.

"George," I said--or choked out, really. She had me so worked up I could hardly think.

"Hmm?" Something in my tone made her back off; she sat up and studied me, idly stroking my ribs.

"FYI," I told her, "if you keep touching me like that I'm probably gonna blow my load."

"Really?"

"Um, yeah." I was having trouble catching my breath, and the speculative tilt to her head was not helping. "Maybe give me a sec."

"Maybe?" She let that hang there while she assessed me some more. We've each always been able to tell when the other means something like "I'm saying this, but I'm flexible" versus "seriously, fuck right off". We're both wired to push for what we want, but there were enough times when we were kids that one of us pushed too hard on something and got the bruises to show for it that we stopped crossing each other's hard boundaries by the time we started school.

George clearly concluded that this was not one of those times, because when I didn't say anything else, she leaned in closer. A lot closer. "Maybe not."

I _think_ that's what she said. My ears had shorted out along with my brain, because holyfuckhertongue her _tongue_ was on my cock, licking straight up the underside and teasing the most sensitive spot below the head, and I was coming so hard I couldn't see.

I felt her give me a lingering, open-mouthed kiss in the same place, and then the bed shifted as she lay back down. When I could focus again, I found her watching me and looking unbelievably pleased with herself. "You weren't kidding," she said. Her breathing had gone shallow, almost as fast as my pulse, and it was possibly the hottest thing I'd ever seen: Georgia in just her tank top and underwear, staring at me with flushed cheeks and that smug smile.

I pushed myself up on my elbows and panted, trying to glare at her. "I'm so gonna get you for that."

Her smile widened. "Promise?" That didn't keep a hint of uncertainty from flickering across her face as she snagged a box of tissues from my bedside table and offered it to me. She waited while I put the tissues to use, and then asked, "Time to go to my room?"

 _Home turf advantage_ , I thought, but of course it wasn't that simple. Her room had been _our_ room for two-thirds of our lives; it was her bed where we occasionally risked sleeping together. It was the one place in the world where we felt safest together.

"Fine by me," I said.

George practically bounced up off the bed, squeezing my hands in hers as she tugged me to my feet. I laughed and got my arms around her, forcing her to hold still until I caught my breath. "You and your post-orgasm lethargy," she said, rubbing her cheek against my chest.

"You knew that would happen, so you've got no one to blame but yourself."

"You did tell me to do whatever I wanted," she reminded me.

"I know. I meant it." I ran my nails across the small of her back, too light to scratch, and watched her shiver. "You can do anything you want to me."

She rocked up onto her toes and kissed me deeply, with a hunger I couldn't match again quite yet. "I wanted to make you come," she said when she pulled away. "I wanted it to be something I _did_." There was so much delight in her smile that I would've forgiven her even if I'd been honestly pissed, which I wasn't. "I felt it."

"You're not the only one."

George looked me up and down, discovered I was still about half hard, and closed her hand delicately around my cock. She was handling me like I was fragile, which was a million times better than roughness, especially right then, but also kind of tickly. Then she slowly used a fingertip to retrace the path her tongue had taken. "I felt it right there. All those little muscles that make you ejaculate. I didn't know I'd be able to feel it that well."

I got where she was coming from--I was sure as hell looking forward to figuring out how her body worked in the same kind of detail--but my brain was still feeling sluggish and I didn't quite know how to respond. "Lucky you?" I ventured.

She grinned. "Lucky me."

I followed her through the door connecting our rooms, shutting it behind me as soon as we were inside. Her bedroom was pitch dark to my eyes, so I waited while she went to switch on the bedside lamp.

When she did, I blinked repeatedly, trying to process the totally unexpected white light. It wasn't _bright_ , but it provided enough soft illumination that I could actually see. I hadn't seen the room so clearly since shortly after I'd stopped sharing it with her. "Are you sure about this?" I asked, not trying to hide my confusion.

George nodded, turning back to face me. "Uh-huh. It's one of those 'for sensitive eyes' bulbs."

"Holy crap." I couldn't help being impressed; I've seen the price tag on those things. There's a reason she uses black lights instead.

"I thought it'd be nice if we could both see," she said. "I had it on for an hour the other day. It really _doesn't_ hurt." She shrugged, almost like she was embarrassed. "We're supposed to get a hundred hours of light out of it."

I went to her and pulled her close, stroking the back of her neck. "That's seriously awesome. And kinda romantic."

She _hmphed_ at me in feigned annoyance. "It is not. It's _sensible_."

"That too."

George slipped out of my arms and touched my hands again. I let her steer me until I was sitting on the edge of her bed, still stark naked, with her standing between my thighs. It put me right at eye level with her breasts, which were already being showed off to much better advantage than usual. The tank top wasn't particularly low-cut, but most of her shirts button up high and George isn't exactly the type to go around with any of those buttons undone.

"I thought you said you were gonna get me," she said lightly.

"I sure am. But right now I'm admiring the view."

"Want me to improve it for you?" Slowly--way too slowly, once I realized what she was doing--she got hold of her top by the hem and pulled it up, then off entirely. "How's that?"

"Good," I managed. So fucking good. Funny thing about falling for just one person in your formative years: my hormones and imagination had imprinted on her body, on everything about _her_ , long before I'd figured out what was going on.

George held still and let me look--let me stare, to be honest. I was a healthy straight dude with an internet connection, so I'd seen plenty of naked women, but having her standing right in front of me, showing me what I'd been touching through her shirts and bras for weeks, was a whole different ballgame even before she took my hand and pressed it over her heart. "Go ahead," she said.

Her heart was hammering under my palm, a lot harder than her calm expression betrayed. It sped up more when I spread my fingers over her breast and brought my other hand up to mirror it. She swayed towards me when I brushed over her nipples, where she's sensitive enough that any touch gets her attention.

It was tempting to keep caressing her like that for as long as she'd let me. Instead, I ran my hands down to her hips, sliding my thumbs under the sides of her underwear, and tugged--just a little, just a question.

"Yes." Her voice dropped. "The answer to everything is 'yes', Shaun."

She stayed there while I worked her panties down her thighs, not moving until she was stepping out of them. Then she looked at my lap and sighed, sort of pleased but disgruntled. "Teenage boys really do get hard again fast, huh?"

"Is that bad?"

"Rumor has it it's the opposite of bad." George took her sunglasses off and set them aside, comfortable in the safety of her room. Comfortable and finally completely naked. "I wanted to watch it happen, that's all."

"I'm totally happy to do this as many times as it takes for you to study my dick to your satisfaction." I put my hands back on her hips, pulling her down on the bed with me. "And by then the novelty'll wear off and you won't get me halfway to coming just by looking at me."

"That's what you want, hmm?" She wrapped her arms around me, pressing her entire body against mine. With her sunglasses off, I could see how her eyes rolled back at the sensation. She may not blink much, but that doesn't keep her eyes from being expressive any more than the permanent pupil dilation does. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a complete idiot.

"I want to do this until it feels totally normal. Like everything else." My voice cracked. "I want it to just be part of loving you."

George studied my face, dissecting what I'd said and finding what was underneath it. "We talked about this," she said, with unusual gentleness. "You're still my best friend. You're still my _brother_. If any of that were going to change, it would have started changing years ago." She kissed my collarbone. "I've never wanted this with anyone but you, and I've wanted it for a long time."

"I know." I breathed in the scent of her hair. "Same here."

Her skin felt softer than I'd expected, but that had to be my hyper-awareness of her; I've touched her skin almost every day of my life, with varying degrees of love and appreciation. It's as familiar as her voice. But familiar or not, having her naked and half on top of me made me feel practically reverent.

I let myself go with it, kissing her while caressing her waist, the singularly glorious curve of her ass, the backs of her thighs. She's compact without being slight, and curvy without being voluptuous--no extremes at all in her body, but she's put together in a way that catches the eye when she dresses in anything remotely form-fitting. I'm biased, sure, but the guys I catch checking her out aren't.

I'd bet my life none of those guys could have imagined the way she looked now. George gets passionate about stuff in front of people, but it's usually ideas or ways of discussing and expressing ideas. Almost everyone who meets her thinks of her as reserved--worlds away from what she was like in my arms, returning my kisses and touches every bit as eagerly as I was giving them.

We made out for what could've been hours, just getting used to the feel of each other. Compared to some of the things we were already in the habit of doing--rubbing and caressing and grinding through our clothes--it was almost chaste. The times we'd kissed like this before, while dressed, had been...sweet, for lack of a better word. Sweet and fun and gentle. It was still all those things now that we were naked, but there was a more obvious intent to it.

You know how in movies, there's usually at least a couple shots of people going at it, and then they roll over every now and then to take turns on top? I'd always thought that was a little weird. Like, just pick one. Except it was fun doing that with George, having her on top of me for a while and then switching to have her under me. Both ways felt good, but being on top made holding off more of a challenge. I was being careful to keep my cock pressed between our bellies, not between her thighs, but sometimes I'd instinctively thrust against her and her hips would jerk up in response and let me feel a bit of how wet she was. Every hormone I had was loudly pointing out that she was _right there_ , right under me, and couldn't I tell how ready she was?

George stopped kissing me, dropping her head back into her pillow. "You look positively awestruck," she said, assessing me.

"I'd say that covers how I feel."

"Good to know." She gave me a look that took my breath away. "How's now?"

"Up to you," I said, and her expression softened into something more tender.

"No, it's half up to me." She squirmed out from under me and pushed me onto my back, making herself at home against my side. Trailing a fingertip from my throat to my navel, she continued, "I know you're trying to take care of me because it's our first time, but it's _ours_ , Shaun. I want to make sure it's good for you too."

"It's already amazing."

"If you say that no matter what, how will I know how to give you what you've always dreamed about?" she asked--mildly enough, but her face was deadly earnest. "That's what I want to do."

"I want to do that for you too." God, did I ever. Giving her orgasms had become a favorite pastime over the past few weeks, and until an hour ago I hadn't even had her clothes off. With so many more options on the table now, I itched to dig down into what she wanted most and give it to her.

"Then I guess we'd better get on that," she said, and went back to kissing me.

We'd had time to research the best way to approach our first time having "real" sex, and the consensus seemed to be that George being on top of me and making the decisions about whether to take things--whether she should take _me_ \--fast or slow or whatever would give us the best odds of it being comfortable for her.

I was more worried about that than she was. Like everyone else, we'd had it beaten into our heads that the first time always hurts for girls, so I couldn't quite convince myself it might _not_ hurt her, even though she'd pointed out repeatedly--and at great length a couple of times, because it made good imagination fodder, especially when she was providing all the detail I asked for--that just because _I'd_ never had my fingers in her didn't mean she hadn't. That would've been a lot more reassuring if she'd ever used anything _other_ than her fingers, but either way, her lack of concern was better informed than my worry.

She found my worry funny, but she also saw where I was coming from: if it hurt her, then from her perspective it'd hurt and she'd say "ow" and we'd get on with figuring out how to make it not hurt. But from my perspective, it'd mean _I_ was hurting her.

She's my sister, so it's not like I've never hurt her before. She escalated our fights as fast as I did when we were kids, and I still don't feel bad about the time I gave her a split lip, since she'd just given me what would turn out to be a spectacular black eye. "An eye for an eye" only works if said eyes are actually equivalent. George's retinal KA doesn't mean getting hit there would be any worse for her than for me, but even when we were young enough to still be fighting physically and I occasionally got so mad at her I couldn't see straight, there was no chance in hell I'd mess with her eyes or her sunglasses.

That particular time I hit her in the mouth instead, and then there was blood everywhere because I cut her lip and my knuckles on her teeth, which just made her angrier. Dad pulled us apart before we could do each other any more damage, and then proceeded to make us completely forget that we were fighting by trying to chew me out for hitting George--not because he thought I was more in the wrong about whatever we were fighting over, but because George was a girl.

That pissed us both off so much that we were back to presenting a unified front before Dad could get more than two sentences out. We went into the downstairs bathroom and helped each other wash the blood off. She gingerly touched the bruise spreading across my eye socket, and we were okay.

I think we were nine years old. I've still got a tiny scar from her teeth. George has no sympathy. Go figure.

But there's hurting someone in a fair fight, and then there's the idea of doing it when they're exposed and vulnerable and you're supposed to be making them feel good. So having her on top and in control sounded like a great idea to me.

I touched her side gently, and George lay still for me, letting me do what I needed to do to get ready. With just my fingertips, I stroked over her breast, down across her ribs and abs and hipbone and the outside of her thigh.

"You're beautiful," I told her.

She blinked in surprise, and then the corners of her eyes crinkled with amusement. "You do know you're already getting laid, right?"

" _That_ implies you think I'm trying to sweet-talk my way into your pants. I'm not." I kissed her mouth and cheek, and her eyes shut reflexively so I could kiss her eyelids. "You think I'd lie to you about that?"

"You are ridiculous and I love you," she said, sitting up. "So. Now?"

"Now sounds great."

"All right." She looked faintly nervous, but she straddled me easily enough--she'd been on top of me just like that a few times before, rubbing herself against me through our clothes. She'd gotten off from it one time, head falling back and nails digging hard into my sides, and it had been so hot I almost forgot how to breathe.

That had _nothing_ on the sensation of her rubbing against me now, skin on skin, and holy fuck, she was wet. I clenched both hands into her sheets and took a second to be grateful that she'd gotten me off earlier, because otherwise I would've been coming just from that feeling.

This time she cut me some slack and held still, which helped...kind of. She was holding still _on_ me, letting me feel all that slick heat I'd been fantasizing about, and she was gazing down at me the same way she had while I was undressing for her: possessive and full of desire and openly fascinated.

I exhaled slowly and nodded, and she got really focused. I'd half-expected her to keep an eye on what she was doing, but she didn't. Instead she kept her eyes fixed on my face while she got a careful grip on my cock, opting to move her entire body rather than be awkward about moving mine. That meant I got a truly stunning view while she lifted herself up, figured out a good angle, and eased me into her.

It didn't feel like she had trouble doing it, but as she sank down, she made a sharp sound that unnerved me--something between a gasp and a moan, which sounds like it should be good, except I'd been spending as much of the last few weeks as possible _making_ her gasp and moan. By now I figured I knew what the good noises were, and I didn't recognize that one.

"It doesn't hurt," she said quickly, before I could ask. She leaned forward and cupped a hand against my face. "It doesn't hurt at all."

"And you're okay?" I desperately wanted her to be okay. I wanted her to be as far beyond "okay" as I was, because the idea of doing something that felt so unbelievably good to me without it feeling just as good to her didn't exactly appeal. I was simultaneously _really_ aware of my entire body--I felt like every inch of skin was begging to be touched, all at once--and feeling like every part of me that wasn't in direct contact with George had become completely irrelevant.

"I'm fine." That was all she said for another minute, although she rocked her hips a little, like she was still getting a feel for me. She smiled at the way I bit my lip when she moved. "I'm trying to think of what to say that isn't porny or sappy."

"What's wrong with porny and sappy? I bet they cancel each other out."

What was running through my head was neither of those things. All the clichéd ways people describe the physical sensation of sex with a girl were true--she was hot and wet and tight inside, and _fuck_ , I'd somehow never clued in that "tight" meant "all muscle", meant she could clench around me without looking like she was moving at all--but mostly my brain kept trying to find words for "I'm having sex with George" and going on the fritz.

I gave her what was probably a loopy grin. "Tell me anyway."

George undulated her hips again, slow, but more forcefully. "I feel _full_. I don't feel like I'm going to come from it, but I can feel you all the way inside me." She took one of my hands and pressed it below her navel, pushing like it'd let me feel what she felt--pushing harder than I would've, for fear of leaving bruises. She didn't look like she gave a flying fuck about bruises. "You're _inside me_."

"Yeah." I sounded half strangled trying to get that one word out, because she was still moving, finding a rhythm. I slid my hand down, wishing there was a way to touch her clit without blocking my view of how my cock was slipping in and out of her while she rocked on me.

Sacrificing the view was more than worth it for the noise she made when I got my thumb on her, rubbing while I dug my fingers into her thigh for leverage. She touched my hand, giving me minute guidance. It was a tiny difference, but her whole body jerked when she got me where she wanted me. "Oh, God," she breathed, eyes drifting mostly closed. " _Oh_ , God, Shaun, keep doing that." She was the one biting her lip now, and hard, from the looks of it.

I kept touching her, maintaining the pressure and angle, and her head dropped forward like she couldn't concentrate on holding it up. Only the motion of her hips stayed steady, so either she was giving that all her concentration or--more likely, if she felt the way I did--it was so instinctive that she didn't need to think about it at all.

No matter how much I wanted to look at her face, my eyes kept dropping back down to her hips and my hands. It was sexy, obviously; _George was fucking me_. But that wasn't quite what made it so impossible to tear my gaze away. It was the primal sensuality of what she was doing to me. I always enjoy watching George move, but what I'm usually admiring is the sharp efficiency of her body language--her precision and focus. This was fluid and hypnotic and, yeah, beautiful.

The stimulation wasn't as intense as I usually need to get off, which wasn't really surprising and could maybe be useful once we got more used to what we were doing, but the sheer excitement of having George on me and the gratifying way she was responding more than made up for that.

"Tell me how it feels," I said.

She laughed on an indrawn breath and brought her head up enough to gaze into my eyes. I shivered involuntarily. I know better than anyone how her eyes look, but the pure animal part of my brain didn't care what the rest of me knew. It interpreted her blown-wide pupils as another signal of acute arousal.

" _That_ feels like I'm going to come," she replied. "And you are too. I know how your face looks when you're about to." She leaned down over me, putting some of her weight on her hands but making sure to leave enough room for my thumb to keep working her. Practical--George is good at practical, even when she sounds like she's on the verge of forgetting what words are. "What--" She hesitated, like she had to construct what she was saying syllable by syllable. "What does it feel like to you?"

"Amazing," I said. "It feels fucking incredible, George." She moaned quietly at the way I said her name. "It feels like I'm gonna find out what it's like to have you come all over me." My fingers were clenching hard into her leg, but she didn't seem to care. I wasn't even sure she was noticing. She was making the most gorgeous sounds as I talked to her--no words, no coherence, just those hungry noises that made it almost impossible not to just let go and ride the orgasm my body was really, really interested in having now. But she was _so close_ , and I wanted to stay hard for her as badly as I wanted to get off.

I gouged my nails into my palm, buying myself some distraction. "I want to feel it, Georgia. I want to feel you come, and then I'm gonna come in you, right inside you--"

And then she _was_ coming, all that muscle tightening and relaxing and contracting all around my cock, and I was bucking up into her and trying really hard to keep touching her clit even though I wasn't thinking straight and we were both moving and our skin had gotten slippery from how wet she was. It wasn't the most powerful orgasm I'd ever had, but it was strong enough to rip wordless sounds out of me, and it was overwhelming in a whole new way, because George was on top of me--all over me--swearing steadily and breathlessly through the ecstasy I could _feel_ wracking her.

 _Self-fulfilling prophecy,_ was my first coherent thought. We'd been putting outright sex off for long enough that we'd both been fetishizing it a bit, whispering about it to each other. This wasn't the first time I'd made her come while I was saying stuff like that--there'd been one night a couple of weeks earlier when we'd gotten each other all worked up and I'd half-pinned her to her bed and said, over and over, "Do you want me inside you?" while she squeezed her thighs around mine and chanted _yes, yes, yes_ until she got off.

When I stopped moving under her, George put her hand back on my face like it was a question. I stared blankly while I tried to parse what she meant. The arm she was still leaning on was shaking visibly, and--oh. She was checking to make sure I was done.

I turned my cheek into the curve of her hand and kissed her palm while I ran my hands over her hips and up her back. "I'm good. I'm very, very good. Come here?"

George didn't so much hug me as collapse on me. She was breathing hard and trembling harder, and when she kissed my collarbone it was shaky, almost like she was trying to remember how to move her mouth. I hoped that was a good sign. I thought she probably couldn't feel the last aftershocks that were still flooding through me, but I could feel hers--a soft, almost fluttery sensation all around my cock. It felt good, but also just _neat_.

"Are you all right?" I asked. I wanted to add _Your body is **awesome** ,_ but then I'd want to explain all the ways I meant it, and I didn't want to make her brain reengage fully if she was feeling as mellow as I was. Later. There was going to be plenty of later.

She nodded, tucking her head under my chin. "Please don't make me walk anywhere," she said, faint and fuzzy. "My legs are all wobbly."

"Gotcha." I tightened my arms around her. Heat was seeping from her body into mine at an impressive rate, like her pulse was driving it right out of her.

"Am I heavy?"

"Uh, no. Not remotely."

"I _feel_ heavy."

I touched her head, turning it so I could kiss her ear. "That's because you just fucked me into jelly. I hope you're proud of yourself."

George laughed and curled up tighter against me. "Very proud, yes. And getting cold. Can you--?"

I found the edges of her blanket and pulled it up over us. "Better?" I rubbed my hands firmly up and down her back again, chafing some warmth into her.

"Yes."

She didn't say anything else for long enough that I thought she might be falling asleep. I was trying to decide whether to shake her a little when she said, "You're still inside me. Are you going to get hard again if we stay like this?"

"Probably." Thinking about it made my body think about it too. "Is that okay?" I hoped so; she had to have felt my cock twitch at the thought.

"We should try it with you on top now."

"Right now?"

"Yeah." George pressed a quick kiss to my sternum and lifted her head to smile at me. "It didn't hurt at all. Let's do it again."

"Didn't you just ask me not to make you walk anywhere?"

"That was ten minutes ago, and why do you think I want you on top?" she said, entirely reasonably. "Your turn to do the work."

"You make a compelling argument," I said. "Or maybe you just want a softer pillow."

She gave me a wicked look. "Softer is only better in some situations."

"You're terrible."

"You know you love it," she said, flinging my earlier retort back at me.

"Yeah, I do." Sitting up with her lying on top of me took some effort, but it was doable. George made a startled noise, grabbing hold of my shoulders to steady herself. I kissed her while she was off balance, bumping our noses together and grinning when she nipped my lip in retaliation. "If you want me on top, you've gotta lie down."

She studied the bed. "On my back, I guess?"

"Your call." I shrugged. "I want to fuck you in every position you're up for trying. The order doesn't matter to me."

"Gosh, you say the sweetest things."

"Saying I'm gonna give you something I know you want isn't sweet?"

"Asshole," she replied, unperturbed. She nodded at the bed, squeezing her thighs against my hips. "Work with me?"

We tried, but we didn't manage to get turned over without me slipping out of her. She snickered as she settled back against the pillows. "I guess that's the famous wet spot."

"Guess so."

Her bed isn't huge, but it's wide enough that we could avoid the spot. George's amusement at it all was contagious; we were both laughing while I kissed down her neck, and then further. By the time I had my lips on her chest I was completely hard again and aching to be back inside her. But she was making happy little noises at what I was doing, so I stayed put, using my mouth on one breast and fondling the other. "God, you're beautiful," I whispered, and this time she didn't protest.

"I'm glad you think so."

"I do. I really, really do."

"You are too." George tangled her fingers in my hair as she spoke. Her back arched when I sucked at the inner curve of her breast, hard enough to leave a mark, but one so faint it'd fade within a day or so. It was as safe as it would ever be to do that, since we had no intention of leaving the house over the weekend. What I _wanted_ to do was kiss and suck and nibble at her throat; I wanted to leave marks to eclipse the necklaces of hickeys classmates sometimes came to school with, when they wanted to show off that they were dating someone in person, not just online.

We didn't have that option. I'd been trying not to think about that, especially since we had so much else we could do, but I craved it--the taste of her, the way she responded to that kind of thing. I itched to have her skin betray every place my mouth had been, so we could both touch the evidence and remember. Evidence might be the last thing we needed, but that didn't mean I could banish the urge.

I rolled most of the way off her, staying close against her side, and said, "Lift your head?" George cooperated wordlessly, letting me adjust both of us so her head was resting on the arm I was using to hold her. She settled more comfortably on her back, tacitly inviting me to look at and touch her however I wanted.

I just caressed her for a while, everywhere I could reach without letting go. When it became obvious that I was "looking" more with my hand than my eyes, she pulled my head down so our foreheads were pressed together, so we could feel each other's breathing coming harder while I explored.

"Can I finger you?" I asked. My throat tightened just saying it out loud.

George responded by kissing me, open-mouthed and enticing. She stopped long enough to say "Yes," and gasped when I touched between her legs. I kissed her back, relishing how the soft, wet heat and hunger of her lips against mine mirrored the feel of her pussy cradled in my hand. I stroked her hard without penetrating her, not yet--the way she was shifting against my touch felt too good.

It felt even better to make her writhe against me when I rubbed her clit between my fingers. I was doing my best to approximate the ways I'd already learned to touch her through her clothes, and apparently doing a decent job of it, given the results I was getting.

I didn't move on until her kisses had turned into swearing at me under her breath. "Shaun, come _on_ ," she said, in case I wasn't getting the message.

I answered by pushing two fingers fully into her, fast and hard enough that she hissed my name when she said it again. "Like that?" I asked.

"Yeah." She swallowed audibly, pushing back against me. "You're just playing, aren't you?"

"I'm not _just_ playing." I drew circles inside her, learning the texture of her body. Even when she clenched around my fingers, I could feel how open she was. _That_ made me think about how much of the wetness that was mesmerizing me was her body yearning to be fucked and how much of it was from her already having fucked me.

The thought was dizzying, but I kept the motion of my fingers steady, finding and caressing the places that made her respond most. Most of her feedback was non-verbal--subtle shifts in her expression, sudden gasps--but it wasn't too hard to interpret. I just had to focus, and part of me would've been happy to keep doing that all day, to keep George turned on and wanting me while I kept touching the proof that we'd been together.

She was watching me as closely as I was watching her, despite the way she was moving on my hand. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

I don't usually stop and choose my words with her, but I hesitated before concluding there was no remotely delicate way to answer. "I'm thinking about how my come's still inside you."

"Except what's on my sheets." George's expression turned pensive, like she was going to be mulling over my answer. "What about it?"

"It's just hot, thinking about how you're this wet because you want me and 'cause you've already had me."

"So you like getting me wet in all kinds of ways." She reached down to touch my wrist, grinding hard against my hand one more time, and then stopped with a sigh. Apparently curiosity really did trump everything else. "Let me see."

I wasn't sure what she was after, but I followed her lead and pulled my fingers back out of her. She snagged them between her own index and middle fingers and thumb, wiping some of the moisture from my skin to hers. Rubbing her fingers together, she said, "So it's like a reminder?"

"I guess so, yeah."

"I don't really need that," she said thoughtfully. "I can still feel exactly where you were inside me."

"Do you still want it again?" Making sure seemed smart; sometimes when George goes off into analytical mode it can coexist with other feelings or trains of thought, but sometimes it means her brain's _only_ focused on whatever she's puzzling away at.

"Do I still want you to ravish me?" Her mouth quirked in a badly-suppressed smile. "Yes, absolutely."

"Does it count as 'ravishing' if you don't have a bodice I can rip off?"

"Yes." Her reply was immediate and firm. "Having our own language is part of the package. We get to have codes and give words whatever meaning we want, as long as we both understand." Her eyes were bright with laughter, and getting to see that--really see it--would have made the stupidly expensive light bulb worth it all on its own. "For example, the dictionary meaning of 'ravish' is irrelevant if we agree that for us it means 'you on top of me fucking me senseless'."

"In that case, I would _love_ to ravish you." I kissed her lightly, teasing her lips until she was trembling, then pressed my forehead against her cheek. "You have no idea how much."

"Oh, I think I have some idea." Hunger was creeping back into her voice again, lending it a warm huskiness.

I let go of her and sat up, moving to kneel between her legs. She let me lift her up so her ass was on my lap. My mouth went dry again. "Can I just look at you for a minute?"

George squirmed a little, repositioning her head on her pillow. "Fine by me."

I put my hands on her, caressing the still-shocking softness of her inner thighs. She spread them further for me with a pleased sigh, letting me savor my first really clear look at her pussy; sure, I'd watched as much as I could while we were fucking, but there'd been too much going on--motion, sensation, emotion--for me to just _look_. "Sometime I want to start cold and watch while you get turned on," I said.

"That's fine too." She reached down to touch my hand--not giving me direction, just resting her fingers on mine while I stroked her legs and then between them. On impulse I slipped both thumbs right into her, feeling the quiver of muscles I couldn't see. "Mmm, that's nice," she murmured.

"Good." I massaged gently with my thumbs, then harder when she made approving noises. Watching her was fascinating, not just arousing. She was exposed and beautiful and getting wetter the longer I touched her, and her hips were moving in that subtle, sensual way.

Under my scrutiny, she licked her lips slowly, giving me a very deliberate glimpse of her tongue. "What happened to giving me something you know I want?"

"Getting there." I moved from under her and stretched out instead, holding most of my weight above her while I took my cock in my hand and pressed the tip between her legs.

George canted her hips up to help me get the angle. "Are you always going to be a tease?"

"Nope, not always." I pushed just the head of my cock into her as I spoke, rubbing it all around the very entrance of her pussy--barely enough to feel the squeeze as she tried, maybe unconsciously, to clench around me. I gave her a tiny bit more, as gradually as I could stand.

She'd sounded annoyed when I'd been slow to finger her. Now she sounded desperate, arching up to meet me while her fingers dug into her sheets. "Shaun, will you _please_ just--" I thrust deep into her, and whatever she'd been planning to say went out the window. She sucked in a breath, a noise of pure need welling in her throat.

"Better?" I sounded as wrecked as she did. Being the one to choose the moment when my senses got swamped with pleasure didn't make it less overwhelming.

"Much." George tried to glower at me, but gave up. Her half-smile was too pleased--and her body was too eager--for it to be convincing.

"Told you I was gonna get you."

"You did," she admitted, reaching for me. "Now come here, will you?"

"Gladly." I settled into her arms and kissed her, drunk on the sensation of her skin all against mine.

"Keep kissing me," she said, like she had that first night when we'd fallen into her bed together, caressing and clinging to each other with giddy relief. "Keep kissing me just like that."

We held each other that way for a while, moving together slowly while I kissed her throat and the shallows of her collarbones. It almost distracted me from the part where I was supposed to be "doing the work", as she'd put it.

Almost, but not quite. When I lifted my head again to see her face, George blinked up at me, putting me in mind of a sleepy and very content cat. I withdrew slightly and thrust back, nice and slow. The pleasure of it took my breath away, like it had the first time, but I didn't think it was the same for her; for one thing, the way we were positioned, neither of us had fingers on her clit, and she'd carefully made it clear weeks ago that in her experience, _that_ was usually what got her off. But her expression was calmly blissed out, like what she was feeling might not be the same kind of good it was for me, but she was enjoying the hell out of it anyway.

"How're you feeling?" I could handle most of my own weight leaning on one forearm, so I brought my free hand to her face, stroking her cheek with the backs of my fingers.

"Good," she said. "Keep moving?" I obeyed, and her eyes slid shut. "Mmm. I could get very used to this. I like the fullness." She gasped as I went deeper again, her head rolling to the side. "Oh," she whispered, more to herself than me.

After that, without discussion, we essentially stopped talking. Kissing her was a higher priority, so I did--quick and shallow, or slow and deep, but always urgent. I got the hang of timing each thrust to whatever I happened to be doing with my mouth, and George made a wordless sound of agreement when I took my lips off her long enough to ask if that was a good thing to do.

"Stopped talking" isn't quite accurate. We stopped saying anything _meaningful_ , but there were still words for a while. When I was using the tip of my tongue in and around all the crevices and curves of her ear, or kissing behind it, she told me not to stop, told me she needed me, told me to keep fucking her--over and over, making me groan and try to push even further into her. When she applied her mouth to my neck, kissing and sucking and scraping her teeth lightly up along my throat, I said stuff to her that I couldn't remember in detail a minute later but meant with all my heart: stuff like how hot she was, how much I loved her body, loved _her_ , and how good everything she was doing felt.

I don't know when it turned...not _rough_ , but rougher than anything we'd ever done before. By the time I really noticed that we'd both been gradually escalating it, I was fucking her awfully hard. George's eyes were still mostly closed, and her lips were redder than usual, like--well, like we'd been kissing each other eagerly for a long time.

Noticing didn't mean I wanted to stop. It only meant I was more keenly aware of her hips rising to meet mine, and of how tight her arms were around me, how her nails were digging into my shoulder blades. It meant being more conscious of how badly I wanted to drown in her, in the sound of her quiet moans. I wanted to keep kissing her mouth and her throat, keep hearing the little noises that escaped when I sucked her earlobe between my lips and played with her earring. I wanted to keep licking her sweat and hunger off her skin while she did the same to me.

Mostly, I wanted to keep fucking her until our bodies forgot they'd ever been separate, or failing that, to stay in the haze of pleasure with her until neither of us had the energy to move a muscle. I just wasn't so sure it was a good idea, and George was zoning out more and more, in a way I'd seen her do a few times before when we were messing around. I knew she enjoyed letting herself drift off into sensory overload like that. I also knew it meant she wasn't thinking--when she talked about getting "fucked senseless", she wasn't just falling back on a convenient turn of phrase.

"George," I said. I laid a hand against her cheek and she turned her face to it, lips parting to kiss my palm. "George, hey. Come back to the land of the verbal."

She sighed heavily and opened her eyes. "Spoilsport."

"I don't know how long we've been doing this, but you should know I feel like I can keep it going for a while."

"Is that supposed to be bad?"

"I just figure if you're waiting for me to come before stopping or doing something else, I ought to remind you that I've had two orgasms already and getting to a third could take a while, especially if I'm not _trying_ to get off. So I'm checking in."

"Oh," she said, blinking like she'd been in a deep sleep. "How long has it been?"

"Not sure."

"You just said that, didn't you?" She unwrapped one arm from around me and took a careful breath. "Sorry. Distracted."

"I know." I kissed her upper lip, tasting salt. We were both still moving, but more gently. "I was too."

Her eyes searched mine with a sudden intensity that made me shiver. She was utterly focused on me now, holding me close and inside her, and it was perfect in a way that had nothing to do with wanting to get off. It was _right_. She was mine and I was hers and we were together, the way we'd always been meant to be.

My eyes stung. George noticed--of course--but she didn't comment. Instead she said, in that clinical way she has, "It still feels good, but I'm starting to feel sore, too."

"Then we should stop."

"No, don't." She stopped caressing my back in favor of clamping her arms around me. "Just go easy, and not as deep. It's just a bit achy where--" She frowned. "I've never tried to describe this before. Where you've been furthest inside me. Cervix, maybe? I don't know."

"You're gonna be doing anatomical research by the end of the day, aren't you?"

"Quiet, you." She kissed my chin. "And don't stop."

I didn't stop. I just lifted more of my weight off her and concentrated on giving her shallower thrusts. George wound her arms behind my neck, keeping my head down by hers. We were both panting, sweat sticking our skin together. "Can I make you come?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Probably not like this. And that's fine--I think it would almost be distracting." Her lips grazed my cheek. "Don't keep score. I'm not. I want you to finish this way."

Without letting me answer, she pulled me down further. The kiss she gave me was searing, making me gasp into her mouth while her tongue slipped into mine. It was hot in every way, something she was giving me without asking for anything in return--nothing but all of me. She clutched me against her like we'd have to be pried apart, like my whole body could sink into her.

It was so good, and I wanted to say her name, wanted to tell her how it felt, but all I could do was moan while I convulsed in her arms and inside her, reflex and that last moment of desperate need making me thrust hard again as I came. The nearest thing I had to a coherent thought was that this _was_ her name in my body's language, this crush of pleasure and love and closeness that was literally unspeakable.

George kept holding me tight when it was over, kissing my face and not letting me lift my weight off her. "Unlike you, I _know_ I'm heavy," I mumbled, without conviction. I was drained and heavy-eyed, and she felt heavenly under me.

"You are," she agreed. "I don't mind."

"I was trying to go easy."

"I know. You mostly did." George stroked my hair, shivering. "You should have seen your face. I've never seen you look like that."

"Good or bad?"

"Good." She inhaled sharply. "I never, ever want anyone else to see that look."

"No one ever will." I buried my face against her shoulder, reveling in the perfect comfort of her body. "There's no way in hell anybody but you could make me feel like this."

There was tolerant affection in her voice when she replied. "That's probably not true, technically."

"Be pedantic later." Her scent was everywhere--the smell of her skin that was just _Georgia_ , that lingered on her clothes and sheets, that I'd known all my life, and the now-familiar fragrance of her arousal. I breathed deep. "Fuck, you smell good."

"I smell like sex," she said.

"I just said that. You smell like sex, and like _you_."

George kissed my forehead, along my hairline. "I'm glad you like it, but I still need a shower in the near future." Her stomach growled. "Make that the immediate future. If I don't eat something soon, my blood sugar's going to crash harder than Dad's old laptop."

"Wouldn't want that." I touched my tongue to her collarbone, then her throat, teasing. "Full meal break, or are we just tiding ourselves over?"

"Let's decide once we're clean," she said.

I took my cue and let her up, lying right back down to watch while she stretched and stood. I didn't get up with her; instead I shut my eyes once she left the room so I could listen to the sound of the shower and imagine the water streaming down her body.

**********

Neither of us had any ambitions about food beyond "get some in our stomachs", which for us usually means defaulting to toast or sandwiches. Half an hour after getting up we were in the kitchen, both wet-haired and clean and more than a little punchy. We were even dressed, barely--we'd both made it as far as shorts, and George had yanked a fresh tank top over her head on her way down the stairs. There weren't _supposed_ to be video feeds running in the family areas of the house without us knowing about it, and there probably weren't--when we stopped being adorable little rugrats, we also stopped being goldmines for good spontaneous footage--but it's a fact of our life that we never know for sure.

At least talking was safe. Back when we were fourteen, George told our parents she wasn't cool with having her voice recorded secretly, which had always bugged her--pun intended--way more than having her image used. A week later she caught Mom using some sneakily-recorded audio of her in a report, and she retaliated by systematically destroying every active audio recorder we could find. Our parents didn't magically start respecting our privacy, but they respected the growing price tag of replacing that much equipment.

Now, from where she was rummaging in the fridge, George said, "When you imagine the stuff you were saying, what are you thinking about? The act or the result?" She surfaced with a jar of jam, triumphant, and nudged the fridge door closed with a bare foot.

I kept an eye on the toaster, ready to snag her toast out before mine was as dark as I like it, but otherwise I was watching her. She was completely relaxed, which is normal when our parents aren't home and aren't expected back any time soon. Sure, I hate the idea of being filmed without my knowledge, but one of the subtlest things I hate about living with them is how our house stops being _home_ for George as soon as they're in it.

The normalcy of it all felt strange, or like it _should_ be strange. Shouldn't something be different, after how we'd spent the last few hours? But the world was exactly the way we'd left it. We'd settled more comfortably into our place in it, that was all: me and George together.

The smile she gave me when she turned was amused and fond and _smug_ , which made me realize how I was beaming at her. Not coincidentally, it pushed her question--which I hadn't quite followed--right out of my head.

Her smile widened when I had to stop and mentally rewind the last minute. "Oh, you're one of _those_ guys," she said.

"I've got these super-distracting mental pictures for some reason. You know anything about that?"

"I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about," she said, the picture of innocence.

"Right." I fished her toast out and left mine in. "What stuff do you mean? When I imagine what?"

George took the plate and leaned around me for a knife, not-so-subtly brushing against me. "When you think about wanting to come inside me."

Her offhand delivery meant she was teasing me--downright flirtatious, for George. I didn't answer immediately, and judging by the look on her face, she was as caught off guard as I was by the flood of sensory memory that overrode the thinking part of my brain. For just a moment all I could do was blink at her, remembering how warm and _welcoming_ her body was, how there'd been that flash of perfect clarity.

I dragged my thoughts back into the kitchen and the present to find her looking at me, paused in the act of putting jam on her toast. "Really?" she said, not teasing at all anymore. She gestured vaguely at my head with the hand not holding a knife. "That's all it takes to send you into vapor lock?"

My face went hot. "Can you take it as a compliment and not a sign that I'm sex-obsessed?"

"If you recover your motor skills in time to keep your toast from burning, yes."

"Crap." I retrieved my toast, which was crispier than I'd intended, but still acceptable. I tried to block out my body's opinion on what she'd asked, so I could give it some real thought. "Uh...can you repeat the question?"

Patiently, she said, "When you talk about coming inside me, what are you thinking about? Having the orgasm, or the result?"

I considered it. "Having the orgasm, mostly," I said. "It's like--like wanting to melt right into you and be _with_ you while I'm feeling that good."

"'Mostly'?"

"There's something primal in there." I shrugged, fixing my eyes on my toast while I slathered it with jam. "Bodily fluids getting all mixed together, like we're part of each other. Like that can last somehow." I grimaced. "It sounds stupid out loud."

"Most feelings do."

George bit into her toast, and we ate without saying anything else. It was companionable and familiar, grabbing a bite to eat together without bothering to take our food into the dining room--which drives Mom up the wall--like we hadn't just been all over each other. Like we weren't both intent on doing it again once we were fed and recharged and had checked our email.

When we finished eating, I noticed a smudge of jam on her mouth. "Jam," I said, nodding at her.

"Oh." She reached up, but I was faster. I rubbed it off her lip and had my finger in my mouth before her hand made it to her face.

She lifted an eyebrow, but her face softened with pleasure as she watched me lick my finger clean. I found myself fixating on that faint smile, wanting to kiss her and suck her bottom lip into my mouth, and then--

I shook myself out of it. George was still looking back at me. "What did you just think about?" she asked.

"Pretty sure you know."

"I don't know the specifics." She crossed into the dining room and leaned back against the table, gripping its edge with both hands. "Tell me."

"Um--" It definitely still felt strange to say some things in the brightly-lit common areas of the house. Even as kids, we'd so rarely talked about anything important except in our room, or later, in one or the other of our rooms. And it hadn't been long after we hit puberty that George convinced me we should avoid touching each other at all where we could be seen, rather than just avoiding initiating physical contact herself. The only exception had been watching movies in the living room without our parents, where we could share a blanket and a bowl of popcorn--both of which required being able to touch.

I put the strangeness out of my mind as best I could, and said, "I was thinking there's probably a good reason why 'bend you over the table and fuck you' is a cliché."

George looked down at the table, as if the hands on it belonged to someone else. "That sounds good. Bet a desk would work just as well, though."

An odd little smile crossed her lips, but she didn't say anything else. I suspected she was staring into space. I poked her in the shoulder and asked, "What did _you_ just think about?" Her cheeks reddened. "Fair's fair. I answered you."

She looked up at me--I could feel her eyes fixed on mine--and said, "You're my lover," her tone a tangle of embarrassment and amusement and half-defiant pride. I couldn't remember ever hearing her say the word before, in _any_ context, without at least a bit of eye-rolling.

I turned it over in my head. There were too many connotations for either of us to say it with a straight face, but there wasn't anything better. George had always been my sister and my best friend. She'd already been my partner in every other way, and anyway "partner" had a bunch of other implications that weren't any better than "lover" once sex was involved. She wasn't my _girlfriend_ , for fuck's sake. She was just...Georgia, and that encompassed everything.

"Yeah, I am." I kissed her forehead. "I meant what I said, you know."

George tilted her head curiously. "You've said a lot of stuff today."

"About no one else being able to make me feel the way I felt earlier. Yeah, obviously someone else could get me off, but--" I was pretty sure I was blushing too. "All feelings sound stupid, huh?"

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't talk about them."

I nodded and said, "The orgasms were great, but it wasn't that. It was you. It felt fucking _transcendent_ being with you that way."

"You're being sappy, Shaun Mason." She stepped closer, so I could gather her up. Nestled against my chest, she said, softly, "You and me."

"Always." I rested my chin on the top of her head, enveloping her as thoroughly as I could. _"Always."_ It felt like exchanging vows, as if there were anything we needed to promise each other. We'd been together almost every day of our lives, and we'd always known we'd be together as long as we both lived. We didn't have to promise a damn thing.

**********

Not long afterwards, we were back on George's bed. Her room was in a more familiar state now, as if we hadn't done anything out of the ordinary. She'd changed her sheets while I was showering, and the lights were set back to UV to eke out the white bulb's life.

We were also both fully dressed--her room was cooler than the rest of the house, with the sunlight completely blocked out, so I'd put on a t-shirt when we came upstairs. George hadn't taken her sunglasses back off yet. The expensive light might not have been painful for her, but her eyes weren't used to it. Coddling them couldn't hurt, even in the black lights. Her getting a migraine wasn't literally the last thing we wanted, but the timing would make it suck even more than usual.

We just lay there for a while, feeling each other breathe. I was curled up against her, resting my head just above her breast while she played with my hair; at the moment my hair was longer than hers, long enough that she could knot her fingers into it, but only because I was holding still and letting her. It wasn't _quite_ enough to be a handhold for a zombie if I got too close to one, but it would be soon. I'd only held off on cutting it because George likes how it looks.

As if she'd read my mind, she tugged just hard enough to tell me what she was talking about, and murmured, "You made yourself look pretty for me."

"I tried," I said, and laughed at her teasing.

George went still under me. I angled my head to see her face and found her looking intently at me through her sunglasses, eyebrows drawn together in mild concern. "Shaun."

"Yeah?" I was quickly starting to feel concerned too, with no idea what had upset her.

She exhaled slowly and said, "Do you have any idea how much I love just looking at you?"

I took a stab at lightening her mood. "Nope." I lifted my head entirely and kissed the corner of her mouth.

The palpable intensity of her gaze didn't waver, but her lips twitched. "I love watching you move. I love how you talk with your hands--I love your _hands_." The huskiness in her voice sent thrills up my spine. "Everything about your body makes me want to fuck you."

"Just my body?"

She caved and smiled. "Your face isn't half bad either."

I took one of her hands and brought it to my mouth, kissing her fingertips. A full-body tremor rippled through her, reminding me just how sensitive her hands were. "You have that look like you want to talk," I said.

"I do, but it's not urgent. I'm processing everything, that's all."

"George." I pressed my mouth to the underside of her jaw, then moved so we were lying face to face. "If you want to talk about how all of this is making you feel, I want to listen."

"Since when are you more interested in talking about _anything_ than doing it?"

It was a valid point, but one I could counter. "How is it either/or? Talking about it isn't gonna keep us from getting back to it afterwards. If something were wrong, you would've mentioned it already."

"Fair enough," she said, but several minutes passed before she spoke again. "I really liked it. I loved being that close to you." She frowned in thought. "I don't know which position I liked better. They were a lot different for me. The first time was like...we were having sex, and that was exciting. I liked having you get me off, and it was _intense_ \--not exactly stronger than I'm used to, but like I could feel it in more detail, just from having something to push against."

"Makes sense."

"But I think the second time I was more aware of it as _having sex_. I was barely thinking about orgasms and whether I wanted one or could have one."

"You kept talking about feeling full," I said.

George nodded. "That's what I was mostly thinking about," she said. "I was so full of you. It felt so good. It'll be amazing if I _can_ come from that, but we'll have to see."

She went silent again, clearly working through something specific. "If you want to make me the lover of your dreams, you've gotta tell me what you dream about," I said, coaxing a laugh out of her. "Tell me what you're thinking." I kissed her encouragingly. "Tell me what you want."

"What I'm thinking about isn't something I'd want all the time. Maybe not even very often." She licked her lips, looking more uncertain than she had all day. "Is there anything you want like that? Like it would be nice once in a while?"

"I think I know what you mean."

"I guess most people probably have something." She took a slow breath, then spoke in a rush. "Sometimes when I get turned on I think about being totally, completely full, so full I'd have to really relax for it to work." A quick shake of her head told me she wasn't done. "Not so much it hurts. I want to hit the limit of what my body can handle, and stop right when it feels like it _would_ hurt if I had any more in me."

I kissed her bottom lip, then her chin, and up along her jawline. "We can find a way to make that happen," I said quietly. George shuddered against me; I wasn't sure if she realized how clearly it conveyed just how much telling me had aroused her. Maybe she did. Leaning close to her ear, I added, "I'm not insecure about the idea of fucking you with something else."

"Good, because you shouldn't be. Everything we're doing feels wonderful." The hint of nervousness was gone, leaving vehemence. "And every time I've fantasized about that, it's been something you do to me. Every single time."

I let the thought of that unspool in my mind: George in her bed, right where we were lying now, bringing herself to orgasm while she imagined me exploring her body's limits. I wasn't sure whether the notion of pushing her that way would have enticed me on its own, but the idea of doing anything that made her respond the way it seemed like she would... _that_ was blisteringly hot.

But it also led to the thought of her lying there after getting off, wondering what I'd think when she told me. George doesn't _get_ nervous, not with me. That she had, even a little, spoke volumes about how much she'd thought about my reaction.

"Want me to trade you?" I asked. "A fantasy for a fantasy?" I rested my hand against her throat. "There is something I want like that--a sometimes thing."

"Sure," she said.

"First, I want to learn to eat you out so well that your panties get wet every time you think about it."

I felt her pulse quicken. Even better, I felt the way her hips moved, that little quiver of responsive desire. I itched to have my fingers in her, feel that response from right inside. "That's very specific," she said.

"Not really." I grinned and stroked her thigh. "Specific is wanting to make you come in my mouth."

"You sound like you've thought about that a lot," she said, half teasing.

"If you mean 'imagined while jerking off', then yeah. And that's not the 'sometimes' part. _That_ I want to do all the time."

"Hold that thought." George put a hand on my hip, and from there she slid it to my crotch, palming my cock. "Thought so," she said, pleased. "Your voice changes when you're turned on. Can I?" When I nodded, she sat up and took her sunglasses off, setting them on her nightstand. We both watched as she unzipped my shorts and reached in, pushing my boxers down out of the way. "Whatever you're going to tell me, can you do it when you're really getting close?" I nodded again, almost forgetting to breathe while she freed my cock from my clothes entirely, caging it in her fingers instead. "I like how you sound then."

"How do I sound?" I was torn between watching her fingers as she squeezed and rubbed lightly and watching her face while she did it. It hadn't seemed so strange to see her face bare earlier, when she was naked, but seeing her with her clothes on and her sunglasses off was a different kind of nudity. Sometimes I joke about her eyes being disconcerting, but only when there's no one else around to take me seriously. There was an element of truth to it now.

"No filter," she said matter-of-factly. "I always like hearing that you want me, but when you're really horny it's pure lust. Should I use lube for this?"

"Probably." I barely noticed the non sequitur; I definitely noticed when she let go to rummage in her nightstand. "I love a woman who's prepared," I said when she produced a small bottle.

"I know." George took what seemed like a torturously long time to put some lube in her palm and close her hand around it to warm it. I groaned when she took hold of my cock again, her hand gliding easily up the length. "I've known you love me since before I can remember. The lust is still shiny and new." I raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's new for me to know about it for sure," she amended.

"I was fantasizing about you before I even clued in that that was what I was doing," I said. "And then I tried to stop, I really did, but the other guys would be talking about girls in our class or hot boys or celebrities or whatever, and you were all I could think about."

"What were you thinking?"

"All kinds of stuff." Halfway through the sentence, I had an uncomfortable flash of memory. "Maybe we should talk about some of it some other time."

"Oh?" George met my eyes, curious--but not too curious. This wasn't something we'd discussed at all, but she knew. My chest ached with the awareness that desire for each other wasn't the only thing we'd shared in silence, especially when our feelings had first started stirring. Desire had brought less pleasant feelings with it, like the queasy realization that something was _wrong_ with us, that we were fucked up worse than we'd thought. It's hard not to feel that way once you realize that the idea of you getting what you want so badly would disgust most people--maybe even the person you want it from.

I shrugged, trying to play it off. "It wasn't all sweet."

"I'd be surprised if it was." She touched my wrist with her free hand. "If you're thinking of something specific, tell me. You'll feel better."

That was true. The thing about George is, she's almost always right, especially when it comes to me.

"The first time I saw a blowjob video was in seventh grade," I said slowly. "I already knew what a blowjob _was_ , but I'd never looked. One of the older kids showed a bunch of us on his handheld. The vid wasn't rough or nasty or anything, but he talked like it was, you know? He said a lot of gross shit about the girl doing it."

George nodded, encouraging me to go on. She kept stroking my cock, but slower, making it comforting in a way I'd never imagined.

"I was awake half the night imagining you doing those things to me," I continued. "I kept trying not to, especially after all the stuff that guy said, but every time I closed my eyes I pictured you putting my cock in your mouth and sucking it. I was so goddamn ashamed--and I jerked off anyway. I could barely even look at you the next morning, and then that night I did it all again."

"And then you slept in here with me for almost a week straight, didn't you? That was that time?"

I wasn't surprised that she'd connected the dots between my memory and hers. "I thought maybe I could reset my brain. Like if you were right there sleeping, I wouldn't imagine you that way."

"Did it help?"

"Not really." I'd spent six nights in her bed, lying inches away and on fire with wanting her--wanting to touch her, wanting her to do things to me that I wasn't sure were okay to want _anyone_ to do, wanting to hug her and tell her how sorry I was. I couldn't get the thoughts out of my head, so I turned it into a sort of self-flagellation, torturing myself with her nearness.

"I know about that," she said. "I mean, I didn't know _that_ , but...I know. I used to hear you masturbating, and I'd go sit by the door to listen. It was a long time before I could admit to myself why I liked doing that. And then one night after I heard you come I went back to bed and got myself off thinking about it." Her eyes unfocused briefly, like she was debating something with herself. Then she glanced back at me and said, with disarming lightness, "Do you forgive me?"

"Uh--" I looked at her blankly. She waited. "Yeah, of course."

Without dropping her gaze from mine, George nodded and moved further towards the foot of the bed. There she leaned down over me, breathed deep, and took my cock into her mouth--not all of it, but a few inches, maybe halfway. Any hardness I'd lost while making my admission to her came back with a vengeance. I managed not to push further, but couldn't keep my back from arching at the sensation.

She kept her mouth there, warm and soft and _fuck so good_ \--I could feel her tongue moving below the head, teasing and promising--but more than anything, it was tender. When she lifted her head again, drawing her circled fingers all the way up my length to make up for losing the heat of her mouth, she kissed my hip. Then she stretched out beside me and said, "And I forgive you."

A few words can work wonders. It wasn't like I'd spent the years since then stricken with guilt or anything; if nothing else, it had only been a matter of months later that we'd made it clear to each other, without saying anything directly, that we both felt the same way. After that I'd essentially let my imagination run wild. Knowing it was fucked up to be in love with her stopped mattering very much as soon as I knew it was mutual. But there'd still been some lingering discomfort, maybe more than I'd realized--and just like that, she'd taken it away.

George changed gears. "You're right. We should talk about that kind of thing some other time." She kissed me before adding, "Right now, just feel this." Cupping her hand over the head of my cock, she rubbed her thumb right across it. "Feel me getting _you_ wet." She held her hand up, showing me a damp smear of pre-come, wetter than the lube still on her skin.

Her face was set with determination, and her _eyes_ \--I stared into her eyes, so close to mine, and let my lips part for her next kiss as she said, "I want to jerk you off."

"Okay" didn't make it out of my mouth. We were already kissing like we were ravenous, crushing our mouths together bruisingly hard, wet and messy and completely, wonderfully shameless about it. George kept her fingers around my cock, her body pressed all along my side while we told each other without words that everything we were doing was good, was beautiful, was what we both needed--and that everything we'd felt when we were younger, everything we'd tried to deny and hide from each other, was good too.

When George broke the kiss, I put a hand to her cheek. "You're going to spoil me," I said, stroking her temple. "I'm gonna get used to seeing your eyes."

"You're going to get used to seeing a lot more than that," she replied, "but you'll cope when I'm wearing sunglasses just like you'll cope when I'm wearing clothes."

"You know it's different, Georgia." I used her full name to drive the point home, and she gave me a wry glance.

"Yeah, I know." She was back to stroking my cock, working it with her whole hand, steady and gentle. _Too_ gentle, my hormones were starting to tell me. Her concentration was harder than her grip. "There's something else I want to try sometime, but now's not a good time to talk about it properly."

"Oh?"

"I want you thinking straight, which I hope you're not doing while I learn to give handjobs."

"It's just a tiny bit distracting," I conceded. She was touching me too cautiously to get me off, but it still felt good enough that I probably would've agreed to anything if it meant she'd keep doing it. "But tell me what you've got in mind, or I'll start assuming it involves whips or something."

George smiled at that. "Nothing that extreme. Ever tried anything with your prostate?"

I blinked. "Have I ever had anything in my ass? Nope."

She swallowed visibly. "I want to try fingering you sometime and see if it makes you come as hard as the internet says."

I took a stab at thinking about it impartially--not easy, between her touch and the flush in her cheeks. Again, on its own, the idea wasn't an immediate turn-on, but George knows as well as I do that once I start wondering what an experience is like, I usually wind up wanting to give whatever-it-is a shot.

And then there was the intense look on her face. Whether it was because the thought got her wet or because she was just that sure it'd get me off hard, she really wanted to do it.

"I didn't figure you'd have kinkier plans than me," I said, only half joking.

George raised her chin. " _Ideas_ , maybe. Not plans. I just had to put more thought into it than you did."

"Why's that?"

"Because you get fidgety if you don't try new things, and you'll try anything, given the chance," she said, practically quoting my thoughts back at me. "I, on the other hand, have just spent a couple years knowing _you're_ who I want to sleep with."

I grinned, understanding. "You got a head start on thinking about stuff to see what gets you horny?" She nodded. "So why were you nervous? It was obvious," I added, before she could try to downplay it.

"Because I wasn't expecting to like some of the ideas as much as I do," she replied, with only a moment's hesitation. "And then because I knew you wouldn't expect it."

I thought that over. "Yeah, that makes sense. But for starters, I'd say that all falls under 'do whatever you want to me'." I glanced down at her hands. "And that feels awesome, honest, but I think the first thing to know about handjobs is that I'm not fragile."

She laughed under her breath. "I figured I'd rather risk being too gentle than hurting you."

"Good call."

"So show me how you like it."

"I can do that." I laid my hand over hers, mapping onto her fingers, and got a solid grip. Her hand had gone almost slack, letting me guide and provide the force behind her touch.

"Oh," she said, startled. "Let me try."

I lightened my grip and her fingers tightened, mimicking what I'd showed her with uncanny precision. "Mmm, like that," I said, letting myself sink into the sensation. She relaxed minutely and kept going. "Fuck, that feels great."

With me guiding her here and there, we found a good rhythm. George was breathing hard, eyes flicking between my face and what we were doing. "So," she said, almost blasé, "what were you saying you wanted to do sometimes? Something about your mouth?"

I instantly knew what she meant, but beginning to explain took effort; my brain was trying to focus only on what was happening to my cock. Now that George was getting a sense of what to do, my body was very, _very_ aware of how long she'd been stroking me, and getting really interested in the payoff.

"I want to be lying like this," I said, getting the flow started, and from there the words spilled out freely as my imagination and my hormones teamed up to take over my voice. "Like this, with you kneeling right over my face so you can fuck my mouth however you need to." George made a faint whimpering sound, and I squeezed our hands together without thinking, thrusting roughly between her fingers. "Feel that," I rasped. "Feel how fucking hard I am." She nodded jerkily, staring at me.

"I want you to fuck my mouth," I repeated, staring back. "I want to suck your clit and lick you everywhere until you're screaming yourself hoarse and my face is drenched and I can't taste anything but you."

Tension and pleasure were coiling into my spine, tightening like she was reaching right into me. I was babbling now, and I didn't care. George was _right there_ , right there with her hands on me, urging me on in a low voice that I responded to more like sensation than sound. Everything was going blurry as I kept talking, needing her to understand the lure of what I was telling her. "I want you to come hard in my mouth, and--I'm gonna come, George--right now, _fuck_ \--"

I have no idea what I said to her during the orgasm that tore through me, or the euphoria that followed in its wake. I must have sounded as desperate for it as I felt, because George was gazing at me with wide, almost worried eyes when I managed to focus on her face and not just her touch. I laughed a little wildly at her expression. Regardless of what else she was feeling, she was also ferociously turned on.

"I want to do everything to you," I said, struggling to catch my breath. "Everything. I want to fuck you with my fingers and my mouth and my cock, on tables and up against the wall--every way I can, everywhere we can think of." I eased her hand off me and squeezed her fingers again, just to touch her. "Anything you want, anything that makes you feel good."

My body was settling into post-orgasm languor. I couldn't fake urgency, and George would know perfectly well if I tried, but hormone-driven lust was the only part of me that was taking a mandatory timeout. The rest of me was still keenly interested in what she was feeling. So maybe my voice was gentler, but that didn't make what I was saying to her any less true.

I cupped both hands around her face and drew her closer. "I want to make you feel amazing, George." My heartbeat was finally slowing back to normal. George's wasn't; I could feel her quivering everywhere our bodies were touching.

After a moment's consideration, she pushed my shirt up--not so much to get it out of her way as because it had taken the brunt of the mess when I got off--and climbed over me. "Tell me again," she whispered.

I put my mouth by her ear, whispering too. "Tell you what? About getting you so wet you soak your panties? Or about you pushing your pussy down on my mouth so I can tongue-fuck you, 'cause you want it so bad?"

"Anything like that." She arched against me, and it didn't matter that I wasn't hard anymore--feeling her move that way made me want to answer her desire with mine. "I like you talking to me."

"What else do you like?"

"Hmm..." She put her hand on my temple and turned my head. Her lips touched my earlobe, followed by a bite so soft I barely felt it. "I like that 'pleasure' is a verb."

"It's a great verb." I reached down between our bodies and rubbed my thumbs over her hipbones. "Do you want to be pleasured instead of fucked?"

"Instead?" Her tongue flicked against my inner ear. "No. I want both."

I nuzzled her cheek and kissed her. "Do you want me to make you come now?"

"Yes," she said.

"Let me up for a sec?"

George nodded and slid off me, freeing me to pull my damp t-shirt off and yank my boxers and shorts back into place. She reached over and circled my navel with a fingertip while I zipped my shorts...and then she pouted. I couldn't keep the surprise off my face--that wasn't exactly an expression I was used to seeing--and she only managed to hold it for another heartbeat before she started laughing.

"If you start giving me sex kitten looks on a regular basis, I don't know if I'm going to be impressed or scared," I told her.

She tried to resume the pout, but her lips kept twitching with amusement, and she gave up. "I think you're _supposed_ to find it sexy."

"Well, apparently I'm only attracted to the kind of girl who can't do it with a straight face."

I touched her waist, and George moved cooperatively so I could tug her shorts and underwear off, leaving her in just her tank top. Its fabric was thin and clingy, drawing my eyes to her cleavage as readily as if she were completely naked. I could see the outline of her nipples perfectly.

"You have gorgeous breasts," I said, tearing my gaze away.

She smirked at me, glancing down at herself. "What, these old things?"

"Just take the compliment."

Laughing, she cuddled against me for a kiss. I gave it to her, and then a bunch more, until we were both giddy.

"Turn over," I said. George did, facing away from me so I could spoon up against her, giving her one arm to rest her head on. I wrapped my other arm around her, caressing her breasts and belly, and down to her thighs. She shifted to make it easier for me to reach between her legs. I ran a light finger over her pussy, not pressing in; the wetness I found there made me groan in her ear.

"Tell me if you want me to do anything different," I said.

George nodded, leaning back more snugly against my chest. I delved deeper, still not penetrating, but getting my fingers nice and slippery. I couldn't resist playing a little--stroking every bit of her, every soft, slick fold of her pussy, before teasing with just the tips of my fingers. "Is this all right?" I asked, sliding them a tiny bit further into her.

"Yes." Her voice was almost inaudible.

I began fingering her for real, hard and steady, whispering to her while she shook and pushed back against me. "I love how horny you are, how much you want this."

She did want it; she was getting perceptibly wetter the more I touched her. But I was supposed to be making her come, and I was nowhere near sure enough that she could orgasm from what I was doing. I kissed the top of her spine and moved my hand, pressing the heel of it down hard against her pubic bone and getting my fingers around her clit. She moaned helplessly while I worked her, a sound that went straight from my ears to my cock--she wanted my fingers in her, but she _needed_ this. I added more pressure, and that was enough to send her over the edge and make her fuck back into my hand with single-minded desperation.

I kept my fingers moving--gentler now, while she rode out the last waves of her orgasm--and visualized what I wanted to do to her next, if she was up for more. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," she breathed, sounding adrift.

I tightened my grip on her and didn't stop. "Can I try something?"

"Do I have to move?"

"'fraid so."

George's first response was a disgruntled sigh, but she nodded. "Where to?"

"Up on your knees."

"Okay." She moved slowly, like her limbs were weighted, but she obliged, letting me adjust her so she was kneeling by the head of her bed. I knelt right behind her, holding her close with one arm, and got my fingers back in play on her clit--just light touches until the extreme sensitivity from the orgasm eased.

Then I showed her what I'd been thinking, even though it meant not having an arm around her anymore: I let go of her and stroked her ass with my freed-up hand, then reached between her thighs from behind, slipping a pair of fingers up into her. She made a low sound I couldn't begin to name. "More?" I asked.

"God, yes."

I kissed the back of her neck and behind her ear, twisting my hand enough to get all four fingers into her. Neither of us said anything else. We didn't need to. We were both concentrating entirely on the same thing: the way I was fucking her with one hand and toying with her clit with the other. I did my level best to work with how her hips were moving, to help her get as close as possible to the exact stimulation her body was asking for.

I don't know which part contributed more to making her come, or if it was the combination, but I felt it with exquisite clarity--how her inner muscles clenched down on my fingers, how she gasped when I pushed back against them. The feel of it made me ache with the beginnings of fresh desire, despite how many times I'd gotten off over the course of the day.

"Keep going, Shaun." George's voice was hushed, almost pleading, and it sent an unexpected shock of pleasure through me that was only half physical. Hearing her sound like that was as intimate as the way I was touching her. She's never done well with revealing her vulnerabilities, even with me, and this one was a turn-on I'd never fantasized about. We were both half naked, but I was beach legal and sated enough that I could have quashed my arousal with no real trouble; George was so exposed that she might as well have been completely undressed, and trembling while she gave herself over to what I was doing to her.

"Sure." I kept kissing her neck and shoulders, moving my fingers steadily. George moved too, leaning forward and bracing herself against the wall. She rested her head against one arm, breathing fast and harsh, then harder still when I made her come again.

"Keep talking to me." Soft gasps punctuated her words. "Let me hear you."

I lowered my head as far as I could and trailed my mouth up her spine, kissing each vertebra through her top. When I got to bare skin, the flavor of it was a burst of salt and warmth on my tongue. "You're so fucking hot," I whispered. "So hot and so beautiful, especially like this." I rubbed my fingers roughly against the front wall of her pussy, right against her pubic bone. "God, I love doing this to you."

"I need to come again," she said, strained and increasingly disjointed. "Sometimes it's like this. The first time or two are easy, but then I can't--sometimes I try for more and I can't, but I want it so much, I want you fucking me--it'd make it easier, but you--"

I interrupted by saying, "I can do that."

"Really?" George asked, and _that_ was an intoxicating combination in her voice--lust tinged with pleased surprise.

"Yeah." I kissed her earlobe, touching my tongue behind her ear to make her writhe. "No way in hell I can get off again any time soon, but that doesn't mean I can't get it up."

I slipped my fingers out of her slowly, and the keening sound she made got me that much closer to fully erect. I reached around her and back between her legs, and pressed my cock up along her pussy, getting her wetness all along the length. "See?" I murmured, still stroking her clit. "I'm hard for you, George. I could put it in you right now."

"Do it," she said, and I did. At first it made her hips undulate in that hypnotic way, but when I found the exact angle she needed she froze, holding herself motionless to keep from jostling my fingers out of position. For the same reason, I tried not to move too much inside her--just enough to stay hard and give her the sense of fullness she craved.

Her shoulders were visibly tense. I shifted carefully, making sure I was balanced, so I could push my free hand under her top and rub her back, as soothing a touch as I could manage.

It took a while, but between my fingers and my cock and my voice I coaxed another orgasm out of her. This time she was almost completely silent when she came, despite how hard and how long it wracked her, and how frantically she rubbed herself against my hand.

As soon as it subsided she said, "Stop now." Her voice was exhausted and aching, kind of like the way I've heard myself sound after a satisfyingly grueling workout. Even though she couldn't see me, I nodded as I pulled out, taking my hands off her with a parting caress along her sides. She turned to me as she pushed away from the wall, settling into my arms as naturally as if we'd done this a hundred times. I held her close and eased us both down onto her bed, where she pillowed her head on my chest and started trying to catch her breath.

"I'm done for today," she said. I could feel her heart pounding against my side, but she sounded normal; in fact, she sounded almost distant.

I knew better than to take that personally. A lot of the time George processes intense experiences by stepping back from them, examining them from different angles. It drove Mom nuts when we were kids. I'd get appropriately excited about cool things for the "audience at home", but no camera could keep George from retreating into herself to study her own reaction.

"Gotcha." I brushed my lips against her hair. "Whatever you need."

That made her crane her neck so she could see me. "If _you_ need anything, tell me."

"I will. Promise."

She pressed a thigh between mine. "You're still hard."

"But fading fast." I let my head sink back into a pillow. "I may be in my sexual prime or whatever, but there are limits."

"Just as well. I love you wanting me, but--" George yawned and stretched, snuggling closer. "But 'insatiable' is only appealing in the abstract. I'd never get any writing done."

"That's a scary thought," I said, and I meant it. According to Mom and Dad, George had started reading when we were barely three. By my earliest conscious memories, she'd already started "writing" by dictating stories to the computer. The idea of a George who didn't spend over half of her waking hours assembling words in one way or another was unfathomable.

She gave me a tired smile and kissed me, lips parted just enough to make it intimate. "That felt phenomenal."

"Can you always keep coming like that?" A couple of times before I'd gotten her off more than once in quick succession, but this felt different.

George shook her head. "Definitely not. It depends on where I am in my cycle--but that won't be the same now, anyway." She pressed her fingertips against her arm, where the implant was. "Sometimes it's only once, no matter what. Sometimes it's doable but too much effort." She shrugged. "And sometimes I can do it more than once, but it's still not always like that."

"You said sometimes you can't keep it going?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Yeah. Sometimes I just get more turned on every time I orgasm, and they feel better and better, but it gets harder to actually come. It can be _really_ good, or really frustrating." She anticipated my next question, clearly amused by how easy it was to predict. "So no, I didn't want to stop, but if you'd kept touching me I would've just gotten hornier, and you might not have been able to get me off again. It seemed smartest to stop the ride when I _wasn't_ frustrated and turned on enough to want to claw my skin off."

"Good call," I said. "Your skin looks a lot better on."

"I've always thought so." Another yawn interrupted her. "I'm going to fall asleep if I don't get up soon. Shower dibs?"

"Go." This time I got up when she did, kissing her before she disappeared into our bathroom.

**********

Deciding how to spend the rest of the evening took longer than usual. We'd decided to go all the way in more ways than one: George had declared our weekend a vacation, even though I tried to convince her that there was something deeply disturbing about needing to call it that. We were sixteen, and school was out for the summer; we shouldn't have needed a vacation from anything but our parents. But of course George was taking a few online courses, which meant I was taking a couple too, and having our provisional blogging licenses meant we had research and writing to do.

In reality, that meant it didn't matter if George's word choice was disturbing. It wasn't _wrong_. So we'd made sure to get ahead in all of our work, and as a result, had nothing we had to do other than keep me from going stir-crazy, make sure George wrote enough to keep her head clear, and just _be together_.

Dinner was effortless. Mom and Dad had both had to do so much prep before going away that we'd ordered Indian in, and George and I had persuaded them to order enough extra to keep us fed for a couple of meals. We reheated plain rice and curries and biryani, discovering we were both ferociously hungry as the smells filled the house.

"I could eat my arm," I said cheerfully. George cringed, only half for effect. Dad had used the phrase once--just once--in our hearing when we were little, horrifying himself and George, annoying Mom, and delighting me.

"You're disgusting," she informed me, yanking the dish of biryani out of the microwave and getting it onto the counter without burning her hands. She has plenty of practice at that, what with her habit of forgetting to eat until she's way past the point when she really should have. If her blood sugar genuinely crashes, she eats something that doesn't require heating at all, rather than cultivating patience in the face of a microwave timer.

As soon as her hands were empty, she punched me in the bicep--hard, both because I'd actually grossed her out and because she sucks at faking it. Having just enacted a blatant and heartfelt ritual of sibling harassment for the cameras that might or might not be on us, we took our dinner into the dining room and ate without saying much.

Inertia took over after that. The living room was closer than our rooms and equipped with movies we both like, so George rinsed dishes and I nuked popcorn. We settled in on the couch, trying not to get buttery fingers all over the light blanket we tucked around us for the familiar excuse to sit so close together.

We were both too full of dinner to eat much of the popcorn, and we'd both seen the movie--a cult classic from just a year or two before the Rising, featuring invaders from another dimension and giant robots punching them, and no zombies at all--at least four times, so we didn't pay a lot of attention to it. Neither of us cared that we weren't really eating or watching. After spending the last several hours doing entirely new things together, it was good to do something so ordinary, to touch in a way we always had and reconnect on that level.

We were still exactly who we'd always been. Earlier that realization had felt strange; now it felt easy and obvious. George loved me in all the ways I loved her, just like she always had and always would.

As if she'd read my mind, she nestled a tiny bit closer to me, warm and drowsy and content. All was right with the world.


End file.
